


All My Friends Are Heathens

by Equalopportunityoggler



Series: Holes In Your Coffin [2]
Category: The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Mild Language, Not Beta Read, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Someone dies, Unrequited Love, is it graphic? I don't even know, no beta we die like men, this is still all Nathan's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29070720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equalopportunityoggler/pseuds/Equalopportunityoggler
Summary: Not long after completing his latest missing persons case, Harry discovers that his previously-missing-person may be tied to a new drugs case Murphy is investigating. When he starts trying to track down the source of this new drug, he gets a lot more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Bob the Skull/Harry Dresden, Hrothbert of Bainbridge/Harry Dresden
Series: Holes In Your Coffin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124402





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome again. This fic directly follows the first in the series, “Look Who’s Digging Their Own Grave.” You’ll want to read that first. As with the previous installment, this has not been beta read, so… just keep that in mind.
> 
> Title is from “Heathens” from Twenty-One Pilots. Yes, every title is from a song, and every song is on a playlist I made specifically for this ship/fic. That’s just how I roll…
> 
> This is still Nathan’s fault.

_**Holes In Your Coffin, Part Two:** _

_**All My Friends Are Heathens** _

Chapter 1 -

“Are you following me?” Bob asked sharply, as he pointed to the glowing sigils he had written in the air.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Bob, I’m following you. I’m following you down rabbit holes that make no fucking sense, that’s where I’m following you.” Bob had been trying to explain some new complex spell theory he had been constructing and Harry’s head was throbbing with the effort of keeping up. Or trying to keep up, at any rate. Harry was a smart guy. He understood plenty of magic. And Bob was a great teacher, always had been. Some things were just out of his league. Like Bob.

Harry blinked at the stray thought. Like Bob’s magic knowledge… that’s what he had meant. Not Bob himself. Though, of course, there was that too.

Bob, watching Harry’s face going from attentive-if-confused, to blank as smooth stone, sighed heavily. “Really, Harry, why do I even bother explaining, if you aren’t even going to try?”

“I’m trying, Bob! I’m trying!”

“Hey, Dresden!” came a new voice - Murphy’s voice - which should not have been there. Harry whirled around to see Murphy closing his front door behind her. He hadn’t heard the door open or even noticed his wards going off. And here he was standing with Bob in the middle of the living room in a broad daylight, with glowy magical symbols floating in the air. Shit! Beside him, he saw Bob hurriedly shooing the symbols away. But Bob himself could not disappear. It was too late.

“Didn’t you lock the door, Harry?” Bob said coolly.

Murphy paused her quick stride across the room and gaped. “Oh. You have a guest.” She looked nonplussed. As if she had never seen Harry interact with another living soul in her life. Was it really so shocking that he might have company?

“Murph!” Harry exclaimed, trying to hide his nervousness and discomfort. “What can I do for you today?”

But Murphy wasn’t about to let anything drop that easily. Gaze locked on Bob - tall man of indeterminate age despite the shockingly white hair, wearing a very formal and expensive looking suit complete with velvet vest and a fucking ascot of all things, she assessed quickly - she asked, “aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest, Dresden?”

“Uh… no,” Harry replied.

But Bob was already smiling politely. “Now, don’t be rude to the detective, Harry.”

“Bob!” Harry hissed at the same time that Murphy demanded, “how do you know I’m a detective?”

“Harry has told me about you, of course, Detective Murphy.”

Murphy looked at him with narrowed eyes, noting the dignified British accent, the practiced smoothness of his voice. “Who the hell is this guy, Dresden?” she asked, stepping closer.

Harry darted forward, not quite in front of Bob but just enough to make it awkward for Murphy to continue forward. “Just an old friend. Bob. My old friend, Bob. He’s just in town, visiting.”

“Bob?” Murphy said, skeptical - no British man that elegant and extravagant could possibly have a name like Bob. “Bob what?”

“Just… Bob,” the white-haired man said, and he gave her another polite smile that set her on edge.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bob,” Murphy said pointedly, and reached out to shake his hand in a gesture that managed to be both polite and threatening at the same time, somehow. But Bob took a small half-step back, his hands tucked behind his back, and gazed at her, impassive. “Wha-?” she was about to say, when Harry jumped in.

“What’s with the third-degree, Murph? Did you want something or not?”

Murphy finally looked at Harry, giving him her full attention. “Fine. I’d like to talk to you for a minute. Alone. Police business, I’m sure you understand, Mister…?”

“Bob,” Bob said again, not smiling this time. Murphy raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Give us a sec, would you, Bob?” Harry said.

Bob inclined his head gracefully and strode away. To Murphy it simply looked like Bob had rounded the corner into the kitchen, but Harry knew he had probably dissolved into motes of light the second he was out of sight.

Harry sighed. “What’s up, Murphy?”

“I’ve got some work for you. Yes,” she added, forestalling him, “paying work.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s some kind of new drug on the streets. No one has any clue what is. The whispers are that it’s called ‘Glow’ but we haven’t been able to find a sample of it to be tested. We’ve already had a high number of overdose cases in the ER that doctors can’t trace to any known drug, but blood and urine tests can’t seem to track down what IS causing them. You remember that kid you found for his mother a couple weeks ago?”

“Casey Burbank, yeah.”

“Yeah, I think he was on this new drug. Different people seem to be reacting to it a little different, but generally it seems to cause extremely powerful hallucinations, enormous surges in strength, and monstrous rage before a very sudden physical and emotional crash and, in quite a few cases, death.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“So what is it exactly you think I can do to help?”

Murphy sighed. “Look, I don’t really understand what you do at all. And I don’t really care to, frankly. But I know you have methods that aren’t available to me or the police. Or contacts you have that you refuse to share. Or something. So… I want you to track down either the dealer or the manufacturer of this new drug. Preferably both.”

Harry let out a sharp breath. “That’s a tall order, Murphy.”

“I’m aware. I’ll pay your usual rate. All expenses. If you need to pay an informant I’ll cover that too.”

“Geez, that desperate?”

“Dresden,” Murphy said, her voice heavy with fatigue and frustration, “as far as I can tell, this drug has already killed fifteen or sixteen people in the last week and a half. I am that desperate.”

“Ok then.”

Murphy sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Good. Good. Ok then. I’ll have the information I’ve got sent over. And your usual retainer.” She turned to go, striding quickly to the door before glancing back. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry nodded. It was clear this case was really bothering her. “No problem.”

*

The first obvious place to start was, of course, speaking with Casey Burbank. So Harry shot Bob a perfunctory “see ya later” - which Bob responded to with “you must be more careful to lock the door, Harry!” - grabbed his leather jacket with his drumstick tucked in the inner pocket, and swept out the door. This time he made absolutely certain he had locked the door and set all the wards. He was not taking chances on someone simply walking in to steal Bob’s skull. Again.

Thankfully, Harry knew exactly where Casey Burbank was at this moment. His mother had contacted Harry a few days ago to thank him for his help again, and let him know that her son was now recovering at home with her. She had, however, been somewhat vague on her son’s condition, so Harry didn’t know what to expect when went to visit them, and Mrs. Burbank led him into Casey’s room.

Casey was half-sitting up in bed, a sheet spread neatly over his legs. Harry had no doubt that Mrs. Burbank was routinely straightening that sheet and smoothing it out. Casey was leaning back against several pillows, his eyes half-closed. His skin was ashen and slicked with sweat, his breathing was labored and shallow, his hands were curled into tight fists and pressed against his thighs. He looked… well, not good.

“Hello, Mr. Burbank,” Harry said gently.

Casey turned his head slightly and squinted at his visitor for a second. “Do I know you?” he rasped.

Mrs. Burbank, still hovering by the door, quickly said: “this is the man who found you. He saved your life.”

“Ah,” said Casey.

Harry coughed and rubbed his hands on his jeans. “I wouldn’t go that far. Just did a job. I’m Harry Dresden.” He stepped a little closer to the bed. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions, Mr. Burbank. If you’re feeling up to it…?”

“It’s just Casey,” the young man breathed, closing his eyes again. “Just Casey, Mr. Dresden.”

“Then call me Harry.”

“What do you want to know, Harry?” Casey asked, eyes still shut.

“Do you know what drug you took?”

“It’s called Glow, far as I know…”

Harry nodded. Just as Murphy had thought.

Casey coughed and it was a horrible rattling sound deep in his chest. Harry winced and stepped closer until he was right by Casey’s side. He knelt down and pressed a hand to the young man’s trembling shoulder. The shaking was so deep in his muscles, in his bones, that it felt as if his entire body was going to vibrate right out of existence.

“Do you know where the drug came from? Who made it?”

“No…” Casey breathed, “not… exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

Finally, Casey opened his eyes all the way, and looked right at Harry. It wasn’t until that moment that Harry realized those eyes were still completely blank, a smooth milky white. “Ah…” the man sighed. “I know you now… I remember…”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.

“You’re the one who was burning.”

Harry’s mouth went completely dry and fought down the urge to surge to his feet and back away.

“You’re still burning…” Casey whispered. “I can’t see it anymore. The lightning is gone. But you’re still burning. It’s still there.”

Harry blinked. Swallowed. Tried to shake it off. These were just the ramblings of a drug-addled man in withdrawal. “Casey,” he said patiently, “where did the drug come from?”

“A wizard made it.”

That made Harry freeze completely. “A what?” he hissed.

Now Casey was giggling hysterically. “That’s what they say! A wizard makes the drug. Pours magic into it. Pours lightning into it. So we never have to feel bad ever again!”

“But where did you get it? Who sells it to you? The… the wizard? Or someone else?”

Casey giggled again. “The wizard,” he snorted. “I never met no wizard. I buy my shit from Phil...”

Behind him, Harry could hear Mrs. Burbank still standing in the doorway, trying not to cry. Without even looking at her, he knew that sound: the soft sniffling, the hard swallowing, the deep breaths made in an attempt to steady yourself. But he kept his attention on Casey.

“Phil? And where can I find Phil?”

Casey waved vaguely in the direction of his cell phone, laying idly on a table by his bed. And Harry knew he had what he needed. Wordlessly, he grabbed the phone, which Casey had not even bothered to password protect. A quick search found a single contact with the name Phil. He copied the name and the phone number and nodded sharply to himself.

“Thank you, Casey,” he said gently, slowly rising off his knees.

Suddenly, Casey was lunging forward, half throwing himself out of the bed to grab Harry’s arm. “You can get me more, right?”

At that, Mrs. Burbank lost her battle against the crying. She covered her mouth with one hand and sobbed.

“I think that would be a bad idea...” Harry said.

“I need the lightning back. You need to bring the lightning back.”

Harry stared down at the young man and those milky white eyes were somehow filled with such hunger, such wild feverish desperation, that he was struck dumb. He still wasn’t sure what, if anything, the young man could actually see out of those blank eyes, and yet those eyes pierced him, skewered him where he stood.

“I can’t see it anymore, but I can still feel it,” Casey added now.

“What?”

“The fire. The fire is burning you alive and you don’t even know it yet. And everything you touch will burn with you. Swallow the Glow. You’ll see it too.”

Harry shivered again, and carefully extricated himself from Casey’s solid grip. For no precise reason, he had the distinct impression that Casey allowed him to pull free, that if Casey had so desired, he could have kept his grip on Harry’s arm for all eternity.

Backing away slowly, he said softly, “thank you for your help, Casey. And thank you too, Mrs. Burbank.” He nodded to the woman as he backed out of the bedroom door. And then he practically fled from the house.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets a drug dealer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try very hard to stick to a Friday & Sunday posting schedule. *fingers crossed*
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Holes In Your Coffin, Part Two:** _

_**All My Friends Are Heathens** _

Chapter 2 -

Harry did not consult with Murphy, or Bob for that matter, before deciding to make contact with Casey Burbank’s dealer. He had simply driven into the city, pulled over at the first pay-phone he could find — there weren’t many of those left these days — and made the call. To say the dealer, Phil, was suspicious of any new person with his phone number was an understatement, but when Harry explained that he had gotten the number from his old buddy Casey, who had assured him that Phil could hook him up with the good stuff, and intimated that he was not stingy with his cash… well, that got Phil’s attention easily enough.

So now he was sitting his Jeep in a dingy back alley on the edges of downtown Chicago, waiting for Phil to show up. While he waited, he made sure to keep both hands clearly visible on the wheel. It wouldn’t do any good to make this Phil guy nervous when he showed up. Besides, Phil didn’t need to know that he had a tiny voice recorder tucked away inside his leather jacket ready to capture any incriminating information he could coax out of the dealer. Technology did not, of course, like Harry Dresden or the magic he possessed. Phones regularly and inexplicably cut to static, televisions refuse to work, and computers died in spectacular pyrotechnics. The newer the technology, the worse it was. But this recording device was practically a relic - a little cassette recorder from the 80s. He had some hope that it might last at least a few hours before it crapped out on him. All he could do was wait and see.

He hadn’t been waiting long, when a long, thin shadow of man wearing dark jeans and a hoodie, with a heavy coat over it, walked briskly down the alley and toward the Jeep. He had both hands shoved into his pockets, with his chin tucked against his collarbone. Yet Harry felt he did a good job of not looking suspicious - merely a man going about his business, in the bitter Chicago cold. The man stepped up to Harry’s Jeep and nodded.

“You Harry?” he asked.

“Yep. You Phil?”

“Yep.”

“You got the stuff?”

“You got the cash?”

“Course!” Harry said, smiling. And for once he wasn’t lying. He had just cashed in the check Murphy had sent over as retainer that morning. He opened his jacket slowly and pulled out a rolled up wad of cash. He had intentionally opened his jacket to tacitly show the dealer that he had no badge, no hidden handgun, no wire to record him with. Phil had no reason now to suspect Harry of being a cop. If he saw the drumstick in Harry’s pocket, he had no reason to find that dangerous. And the little tape recorder remained unnoticed as Phil scanned him for more advanced methods of policing.

Nodding, Phil muttered, “good good. Okay, here’s how it works. This shit is new. One bag goes for $100, last you about three hits.” Phil lifted a very small plastic baggy from his pocket filled with a fine white powder. It could have been anything - it could have been cocaine, it could have been baking soda for all Harry knew.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Called Glow. It’s all the rage right now. I promise you ain’t felt anything like it before.”

“Where’s it come from?” Harry asked next, tinging his voice with enough awe to hopefully convince Phil he was just very excited.

Phil scoffed. “Why’s that matter?”

“Well… I mean… I usually like to know my source. Only way to make sure its safe, not cut with anything… unsavory…”

Phil scoffed again. “I give ya my word it ain’t. That’ll have to do.”

Harry sighed, debating whether it was worth it to keep pretending he was just nosy, or if it was time to start pushing the dealer a little harder.

“Casey says you got your stuff from a real wizard,” Harry breathed, “but he’s just fucking with me, right?”

At that Phil grinned, “he might be, might not be…”

“That’s not an answer,” Harry insisted. “Who’s your supplier?”

Phil crossed his arms. “You want this shit or not?”

Again Harry sighed. Fine, time to push. He pulled his drumstick blasting rod out of his inner jacket pocket and gave it a little flick, until a small flame appeared at its tip.

“That’s a cool trick,” Phil said dubiously. “What’re you doing?”

Quick as a flash, Harry reached out of the Jeep and grabbed the dealer by the collar of his hoodie. With another flick, the flame at the end of his blasting rod grew in strength and brightness, then he held it close to Phil’s wide-eyed face.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a real answer, Phil,” Harry said, his voice growing harder with each word.

“Wha… what?” Phil blinked. “Some… some stupid light trick don’t scare me.”

Harry allowed himself just the tiniest smirk. “Oh?” The flame grew long and narrow and brilliant blue like an especially powerful blowtorch. Phil’s eyes widened and Harry had no doubt that the man could feel the searing heat radiating from the flame. “How about now?”

“I… wha-? How? How are you doing that?”

“If you really got that stuff from a wizard, I should think you would know, Phil.”

Suddenly, Phil was spluttering and weakly trying to pull away. “Not another one!” he groaned.

At that, Harry grinned. Now he was getting somewhere. “Start talking,” he said, “and maybe I’ll be content to let you go with both eyes intact.” Of course, Harry could never actually burn Phil’s eyes out of his skull with magic, or the White Council would string him up by his toenails and Morgan would personally ensure he didn’t get to keep his head. But Phil didn’t need to know that, did he?

“Okay okay!” Phil cried out. “Don’t! I don’t know much but I’ll tell ya! I get the Glow from a guy. Says he’s a real wizard. Did some crazy shit to prove it too! Got nothing on that flame of yours though, buddy.”

“Who is this wizard?”

“I don’t know! I swear! He approached me. I don’t know his name. I don’t know how to contact him. He sends me a text when he has more of the shit to sell me. But the text never comes from the same number twice. And he just gives me a drop off location. And the location is never the same twice. And I send the money to an untraceable bank account. Believe, I tried to trace it! I don’t like not knowing who I’m doing business with. But that’s all I know, I swear!”

Nodding slowly, Harry let go of the dealer’s collar, and with a flick of his wrist the flame died.

“That’ll have to do then,” he said. He paused. “I still want the stuff though.” And he held his hand out, palm up, waiting with a placid expression on his face.d.

Phil swallowed hard and seemed to consider his options for a moment, before he dropped the small baggy of white powder into Harry’s waiting hand.

“Thanks, Phil,” Harry said brightly. He slid the bag into his jacket pocket. “Now get out of here before I think better of it…”

Phil didn’t need telling twice. Without a word, he sprinted out of the alley and around the corner, out of sight. Harry wasn’t concerned about that though. He had the man’s first name, phone number, and physical description. Once he gave all of that information to Murphy, she’d be able to pick the guy up and arrest him, no problem.

In the meantime, however, Harry had a drug to analyze. If a rogue wizard really was making some new drug and letting loose on the streets like this, it would be best to figure out what the hell it was made of as quickly as possible. Thankfully, he had just the person to help him with that.

*

The first thing Harry did when he got home was to call Murphy. He’d rather not have Phil out on the streets handing out more of that drug any longer than was strictly necessary. He gave her the drug dealer’s name and phone number and description and told her to go to town. Have fun tracking that sucker down! She thanked him for the information, nicely even!, and was off. That task completed, Harry took the little baggy of the white powder now known as Glow, carried it to his secret workroom, and called for Bob.

“I take it you found your drug dealer?” Bob asked conversationally.

Harry waved the little plastic bag in Bob’s face. “I’d say so.” Pulling a stool up to his work table, Harry settled down and poured the powder into a shallow bowl. “I’d like to take this stuff apart and see how it works. Care to assist?”

Bob tuck his hands neatly behind his back and leaned forward, over Harry’s shoulder. Bob had not left quite enough distance, and his chest partially drifted through Harry’s shoulder, causing a spray of golden sparks and that strange tingling feeling Harry always got when Bob decided to do something obnoxious like walk through him. If Bob noticed Harry’s shiver, he did not say. Harry had told Bob loudly and often that the feeling was unpleasant, that the sensation of Bob’s incorporeal form sliding through him gave him the “heebie jeebies.” This was not, strictly speaking, true. It was a strange sensation, an unsettling one, but it was far from unpleasant. The tingling feeling was more like… pop rocks in your mouth, sparklers going off before your eyes, delicious butterflies in your stomach. But Bob did not need to know that. Ever.

“What do we have here?” Bob hummed, gazing intently at the drug.

“Dealer called it Glow,” Harry answered, swallowing hard and resolutely ignoring the tingling that continued in his shoulder. “Claims it was made by an actual wizard. Normally, I’d roll my eyes at the claim, but now I’m beginning to wonder…”

“Well, we shall have to see, shant we?” Bob said brightly. He straightened, a spray of sparkles cascading over Harry’s shoulder as his body pulled away. Harry let out a long slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and nodded.

What followed was a long series of tests, recommended one after the other by Bob, and performed diligently by Harry. Separating the powder into tiny increments, they burned bits and boiled bits and ran electrical current through bits and cast a variety of spells on and with it. The analysis went on for several hours, during which time Harry had barely looked up from his work table, and Bob had barely stopped muttering. They argued over methods of tests and which spells should be done in which variations; they argued over the results and what they might mean; they argued over when they had enough information and could finally stop.

“I think we’re good, Bob,” Harry said wearily after more than five hours of work, as it neared two in the morning.

“I would tend to agree,” Bob nodded. “Let us compile all our results and see what we have on our hands.”

What they had was, to put it bluntly, a disaster. The drug seemed to be based on one of the newer designer drugs floating around, colloquially called “bath salts.” It was chemically similar to cathinone, a naturally-occurring substance derived from the Catha edulis plant, that acted as a central nervous stimulant like amphetamines, or cocaine. The base drug was bad enough, known to cause elevated moods and heightened energy and sex drive in some, but quite often it also caused hallucinations, paranoia, excessive rage, violent outbursts, and full psychotic breaks.

But that wasn’t even nearly the worst of it. The worst of it was that Casey Burbank and Phil the drug dealer were right - the drug had been made, or at least modified, by a rogue wizard. The changes to the drug had given it more potency, amping the rage and energy even higher, adding in a dash of psychic energy that could hypothetically lead to truth-seeing and clairvoyance, and triggering any latent magical ability that could cause explosive reactions. It also seemed to be shockingly addictive and potentially fatal.

“It’s also very unstable,” Bob added as they completed their analysis. I believe even a few hours in direct sunlight might break the magic up into its component elements with a fairly dramatic puff of smoke.”

“Stars and Stones!” Harry exclaimed, “how the hell are we going to find the asshole who’s making this shit?”

“That I cannot say,” Bob admitted, “yet.”

“Thanks for the help, Bob. I’ll tell Murphy what I can in the morning. Right now, I really need some sleep.”

Bob glanced at the small clock on the wall, and gave Harry a wan smile. “It is the morning, actually. But early enough yet for you to get at least a few hours. Go. Rest.”

With a nod, Harry walked away to go pass out for a while.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry does some magic; Murphy comes to some sudden conclusions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be too busy with work on Friday to post a new chapter, so I figured one day early was better than one day late (especially if I want to try to stick to a Fri/Sun posting schedule).

_**Holes In Your Coffin, Part Two:** _

_**All My Friends Are Heathens** _

Chapter 3 -

He awoke to the sound of banging at the door and shouting. “Harry! Wake up!”

He shot out of the bed, rolling to his feet and taking several steps forward into a defensive stance before he’d even become entirely aware of what he was reacting to. His heart pounded in his throat. Defensive spells paused on his lips and his hands.

“Harry…” he heard Bob say gently, “it’s just Murphy.” At that, Harry felt his shoulders relax, his hands unclench, and his stance soften.

“Oh…” he said sheepishly. Bob, now hiding in his skull so Murphy would not see him again, had the good grace not to say anything else. But Harry scrubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment anyway as he trotted down the stairs of his loft to answer the door.

“What the hell, Murphy?” he demanded as the door swung open. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet!”

“The drug dealer is dead,” Murphy announced without preamble as she stomped into the front room.

“What?!”

“Yeah. Phil. Your drug dealer. He’s dead.”

Blood drained from his face and he stuttered. “Wha-? Murph… it… it wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t!” He couldn’t seem to help himself. Murphy had glared at him suspiciously far too many times. Hell, she had almost-explicitly accused him of his uncle’s murder just a few months ago!

But Murphy just waved her hand dismissively, “yeah yeah yeah, Harry. I know it wasn’t you. Witness saw our pal Phil get hit by a bus outside a freaking laundromat on the Lower West Side. Hardly you’re MO if you ever did decide to kill someone.”

A loud whoosh escaped his lungs. “Oh. Okay, good. I mean… not good that he got stabbed, of course… Just… good you know it wasn’t me.”

“Dresden, stop talking.”

“Yes, right, sorry.”

“We’ve now lost our only solid lead to whoever is manufacturing this new drug,” Murphy sighed. “I’m not sure what our next move is…”

“I may have some thoughts on that,” Harry volunteered. “Can you get me to see the drug dealer’s body?”

Murphy paused and looked at him curiously. “Uh… probably… The M.E. wasn’t planning to do an autopsy since he was clearly hit by a bus, but they are bringing the body in because he was under investigation. So… yeah, yeah I can.”

“Good. Let’s start there then.”

Murphy nodded and turned back toward the door. Harry grabbed his leather jacket off its hook on the wall, and turned back toward his loft bedroom. “Hey, Bo-!” he started, planning to tell Bob that he would be heading out for a bit before he realized quite what he was doing and who he was doing it in front of.

Murphy froze to gape at him. “What are you doing?”

Coughing in acute embarrassment and discomfort, Harry ducked his head and shoved his arms into his jacket. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Let’s go.” He swept past Murphy and out the door, leaving Murphy to close it behind her all the while continuing to stare at his back with growing confusion and suspicion.

*

The morgue was cold, as always. Harry hated it there. For all the usual reasons, he supposed. Even more so since the incident with Bob and his Uncle Justin. He remembered too clearly waking up on the freezing metal table, hands tied, mouth gagged, to discover Bob physically-present and leaning over his body. His Uncle Justin’s voice had hit him then, zapping him like a bolt of lightning that shot down his spine and twisted his gut. He also remembered those brief exquisitely painful seconds when he had, for a moment, believed Bob was dying on him. Truly dying. The fact that Bob had not really betrayed him, and had not died but merely returned to his incorporeal form had not done much to diminish the fear and anguish of those moments. He should have been able to shake it off by now, surely, and yet…

He shivered and looked around him. The morgue was all white and gray and stainless steel. Sterile and freezing and devoid of any scent but that of cleaning solutions. There was no smell of death, no lingering odors of grief and despair. And yet it was there, in the air, perhaps only perceptible to those like Harry, with the gift of magic and sensitivity to both the natural and spiritual worlds.

“You okay?” Murphy asked him, the tone of her voice revealing more concern than she usually allowed to show.

He shook his head to clear it. “Yeah. Yeah… just…” He looked down at the body hidden by a smooth white sheet. “Can I get a moment alone with… him… for a minute?”

The twist of Murphy’s features spoke volumes of her uncertainty and discomfort at the very idea. It was against all kinds of protocols, he was sure. But after a pause, she merely sighed, nodded, and exited the room, leaving Harry alone with the body of Phil the drug dealer.

Gently, as respectfully as possible, he pulled back the white sheet to reveal the naked body and all the tell-tale signs of being hit by a bus. Against the ashy pallor of dead skin, the gashes of split-open skin and still-livid pre-mortem bruises practically glowed. Several ribs had clearly been crushed, and judging from the shapes and angles of the damage, Harry suspected the broken ribs had punctured his lungs, perhaps even crushed his heart. He took a deep breath and tried to center himself. Then he took a small linen pouch out of his jacket pocket and opened it. 

Inside lay a fine gold powder, a spell he and Bob had concocted together years ago. He poured a general amount of the powder into his cupped palm, held the palm close to his face, and leaned down near the body. And blew hard.

The powder flew into the air and in a glittering gold cloud and slowly settled over the body, almost like a net or a translucent film of silk.

“Okay,” Harry whispered to himself, “let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Crouching down and leaning in close, with his chin almost level with the table, Harry inspected every inch of the body before him. This close he could smell the death beneath the cleanness and cold, but after all he had seen (and smelled) the last few years, he found that it did not unduly disturb him. Though perhaps that fact should have disturbed him. Slowly, he walked all the way around the table. He had started at the right shoulder and worked his way down the right side, around the bare feet, and back up the left side. It was when he reached the left side, and peered at the bruised and broken flesh along the rib cage that he saw it: An enormous glowing hand-print pressed hard into Phil’s side, curling around the rib cage, with small points like the ends of claws tipping the end of each ghostly glowing finger.

As he had expected and feared, Phil the drug dealer had not simply been hit by a bus. Magic had made it happen somehow. If he had to guess, he would say that someone had magically shoved him into the path of that bus and held him there so he could not run.

Harry shuddered. It would not have been a pleasant way to die. Not only could he see his death coming, see the bus bearing down on him… Not only would the pain from that kind of impact be immensely excruciating… But on top of all that, Phil would have been all too aware of the fact that someone was moving his body with his control or consent, would have felt the invisible hand pushing or pulling him and pressing down on him until the bus was upon him and it was too late to run.

Aware that Murphy was going to burst in on him any moment, Harry scrambled. He pulled a long narrow selenite crystal from his pockets - all milky white and smooth straight striations - held it between both hands and blew on it gently until it began to glow blue. Then he whispered a few quick lines of Latin over it, stumbling over the words as he always did despite Bob’s constant needling about his pronunciation, and pressed the length of the crystal against the glowing hand-print on Phil’s ribs. And waited.

At first nothing seemed to happen, and he wondered what he had fucked up this time. Bob was always haranguing him about his sloppy work, missing the details, ignoring the nuances, and so forth. But he could have sworn he’d gotten this spell right. And yet, nothing happened.

Until it did. 

He held his breath as the golden glow of the hand-print slid off Phil’s pale bruised skin and soaked into the selenite crystal. The blue that Harry had coaxed into the crystal slowly gave way to the gold, until after a few breathless seconds the whole crystal was filled with a warm burnished light. Now he had a sample of the energy that had killed Phil the drug dealer. Like a fingerprint, or perhaps even more like an electromagnetic signal, he now had a direct line to the magic of whoever had done this. And no doubt, whoever had done this, was almost certainly the same rogue wizard who had made the new drug in the first place.

“Harry, would you hurry up!” Came Murphy’s voice, as she swung the double doors of the morgue open and strode in.

Rapidly, Harry shot into a straight standing position, and snapped his fingers, banishing the golden net that had still lain over Phil’s body. But Murphy had clearly caught sight of the magic and now stood there, gaping at him.

“How... how’d you do....” she started, then shook her head sharply. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Harry pressed his lips together and didn’t speak.

“Are you done doing whatever it is you were doing?” Murphy asked.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Harry nodded, and without a second glance at the body, walked out of the morgue. He had things to do in his lab.

*

Harry was leaning against his kitchen table, his weight braced on his forearms pressed against the tabletop, peering down at the large pot in front of him. One could call it a cauldron if one wanted. Bob certainly wanted to. But Harry couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the word. It was a large cast iron pot he could heat up on the stovetop. It was _not_ a “cauldron.” Bob was at the other side of the table, directly across from Harry. He was also leaning forward over the table, but because he was incorporeal and could not actually lean on the table, he had tucked his hands behind his back and merely leaned carefully over the pot. Their heads were so close together that Harry could almost imagine he could smell his ghostly friend - a fragrance Harry had concocted in his brain by cobbling together what he could remember from those brief moments Bob had been alive, and the scents he associated with the man. This fragrance in his imagination consisted largely of earthy incense, cinnamon, bourbon, and the ozone-like smell of magic in the air. This imagined scent had become quite a common feature in Harry’s dreams, and occasionally overwhelmed him even when awake and trying to stay focused. Right now, he imagined he’d caught a whiff of it as he lifted his head a little to look Bob in the eye.

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” he said sharply.

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” Bob accused. His shockingly pale blue eyes flashed, with anger or amusement Harry could not be certain. For a second Harry forgot they were arguing, lost in the glow of those almost-silver eyes. There was a pause, during which Bob watched him expectantly.

Then Harry blinked and exclaimed, “I am not!”

Bob arched an inquisitive, disbelieving eyebrow at him and Harry felt his face flushing. He dared not examine too closely if he was flushing from anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely. Yet he felt himself lean even further forward, almost unconsciously, as if being drawn forward.

“Alright,” he said in a soft challenge, “if I’m screwing it up so badly, why don’t you tell me how to fix it...?”

Bob’s eyes gleamed as he opened his mouth.

*

Murphy was more than a little surprised to find Dresden’s front door unlocked again. He used to leave it unlocked all the time, letting any random person walk in off the streets without concern for his safety. But the last couple months he had become more and more careful about that, leaving it locked except during strict business hours when he could be in the front room, keeping an eye on things. Yet, when she had tried the door handle, it had opened easily. Perhaps, a little too easily, she thought with some concern. She wondered if someone had perhaps broken in and left the door open, or if Harry was in some kind of trouble. Suspicion now blossoming in her head, she did not call out for Harry but stepped quietly into the apartment office and looked around. Nothing seemed disturbed or out of place, which was good, but...

Her steps were light and silent as she walked through the office/living room combo, and headed toward the kitchen. Then she heard voices.

“...doing it wrong,” said one voice she didn’t quite recognize, though it lingered right on the edge of her memories.

There was a pause and then Harry’s voice, “I am not!”

She rounded the corner in time to see Harry and that man she had met in Harry’s office a couple days ago - Bob? - standing over the kitchen table. Bob was wearing the same beautifully tailored, clearly expensive black suit and rich burgundy vest. The two men were leaning toward each other, across the table, their faces just inches apart. Harry seemed to be leaning in even more closely, and Murphy heard him say softly: “Alright, if I’m screwing it up so badly, why don’t you tell me how to fix it...?”

Both men had such odd expressions on their faces, it took Murphy a breath or two to give them labels. The white-haired man, Bob, had a look of expectation and challenge, almost as if he was daring Harry to do something. And Harry’s expression, she decided, was a mix of indignant and defiant and something that looked suspiciously like longing.

Oh, said a small voice in her mind, with a feeling like something clicking. It was like that, was it? Feeling suddenly embarrassed both for herself and on Harry’s behalf, Murphy decided to cut in before things got even more heated, and coughed lightly to announce her presence.

Harry yelped and jumped back from the table several feet as if he had been zapped with an electrical charge, then turned to stare at her with a bright blush creeping up his neck and across his face. Meanwhile, Bob reacted a bit more sedately, blinking in surprise but straightening his back in a calm liquid motion before turning to look at Murphy with a perfectly blank face.

“M-Murphy!” Harry said, trying for cheerful and failing miserably. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“You left your door unlocked. Again.”

“Oh.”

“Really, Harry,” said Bob in his shockingly-elegant British accent, “how many times do I have to remind you?”

“Yeah, Bob, later,” Harry said, waving a dismissive hand.

Murphy raised an eyebrow at them. The way these two men spoke made it sound less and less like a friend coming to town to visit, and more like roommates who had been putting up with each other for a very long time. Except that was impossible. Murphy would have seen if Harry had had a roommate living with him this whole time. Surely?

“Uh.... so, what’s up Murphy?” Harry asked, clearly trying to get the attention off himself.

“I wanted to talk about the case, Dresden. Clearly.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, Bob and I were just debating something about that, actually, if you—”

“Wait. You can’t go around telling random civilians about my investigations, Dresden! You know that!” Murphy was quickly sliding from confusion to annoyance.

Harry blinked, and even Bob had the good sense to look a little uncomfortable. “Oh, um. No, it’s fine. I mean... Bob is hardly just some random civilian. He’s my best friend. I consult with him about cases all the time.”

“What do you mean ‘all the time’!?” Murphy exclaimed, at the same time that Bob was looking at Harry softly and saying “really, Harry, I’m touched!”

Harry froze, eyes wide like a child caught doing something awful by his parents. He looked positively horrified, and Murphy wondered which thing had set him off: accidentally revealing to her that he was telling his friend about all of her cases, or calling said friend his ‘best friend’ within anyone’s hearing. She rolled her eyes. Men were so ridiculous and emotionally constipated sometimes. Calling someone his best friend was hardly an earth-shattering confession of undying love, after all. Then she smirked, because if Harry’s earlier expression had been anything to go by, that’s exactly what he had been thinking about.

Harry’s eyes darted between Murphy and Bob like a cornered animal. Then he seemed to consciously will himself back to some semblance of calm, and coughed. “Yeah... uh... sorry about that Murphy. I guess I should have told you I sometimes consult with someone,” he said finally. Murphy noted with amusement that he was not even going to address the other comment.

“Yeah, you should have,” she replied. “But fine, whatever. What have you and your friend been discussing?”

And just like that Harry was all business again. “We think we might have a way to track down the person who killed Phil the drug dealer.”

“What do you mean ‘killed’? Phil was hit by a bus.”

“He was, yeah. But that incident was manufactured to look like an accident. He was actually dragged in front of that bus.”

“How? There were witnesses!”

Harry gave her a dry, patient look, and she sighed: “More of your weirdness, I take it?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“And you can track the person who did this?”

“Yes. And I’m working under the assumption that the person who killed Phil is the same person who is manufacturing that new drug.”

“Ah.”

Murphy looked between Harry and his strange, white-haired friend.

“And how exactly are you going to track this guy?”

At that Bob grinned. It was a toothy grin. An almost predatory grin. It was unsettling. “Trade secret,” he said.

“Uh.... something like that anyway,” Harry intervened. “How about you let us try something out and get back to you? If it works, you’ll be the first to know. If not, I’ll leave it to your capable hands. Sound good?”

Murphy stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes slid to the kitchen table beside him, where there sat a large cast iron pot with some strange liquid bubbling away inside it. Bubbling away despite the fact that it was on a cool wood table and not on a hot stove. She had been adamantly refusing to follow Harry down the insane rabbit hole that led to whatever insane things existed in his life. He’d used the word magic before. He’d mentioned demons and gods and other impossible things before. But she had tried her best not to listen too closely, not to pay attention, not to take it seriously. Part of her wondered what precisely could possibly be bubbling in that pot. Another part of her decided she didn’t need to know.

“Fine,” she said curtly. “Call me when you’ve got something.” Then she nodded sharply and retreated.

*

When Murphy had gone, Harry stood stock-still for a few seconds, blinking. He felt vaguely panicked, for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t as if he had said anything inappropriate or particularly revealing. A little sappy perhaps, but not unforgivable. Maybe it was that Murphy had been looking at him like she had just solved a confusing and difficult puzzle. As if she had seen something more than he had meant to show, and connected dots he wasn’t even aware needed to be connected. Something like the fact that he was in love with his best friend.

Or maybe it was simply that explaining away Bob’s presence, his best friend who happened to be a ghost, was going to get more and more difficult the more often Murphy encountered him.

He shook his head to clear it. Then he clapped his hands together and turned back to the kitchen table, and to Bob, saying brightly “let’s get back to it then, shall we?”

With a bland smile, Bob merely nodded. “Of course.” And just like that, the awkwardness that Harry had felt (which Bob seemed entirely unaware of anyway), dissipated, and they slid easily back into their work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets his man, as you P.I. types like to say...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being a few days late on this update! This chapter required a bit more revising and editing than I had initially expected, and then my weekend got busy, and then the Australian Open started and I got distracted (I’m a tennis nerd, don’t judge me!). In any case, this is the last chapter of Part Two.
> 
> A couple things:  
> 1) I told myself I should really come up with the process by which Harry and Bob make their potion, and then decided I just didn’t want to, so I didn’t.  
> 2) I have tried, where I can, to use invocations/spells that Harry actually uses in the books and tv show. Mostly the really common ones (fuego, forzare, etc).  
> 3) I’m not generally a fan of cops ignoring protocol and the law, even in tv shows, but I couldn’t figure out how else to get Murphy there, so… It’s a fantasy! I bent the rules! So sue me! (Don't actually sue me, I'm poor.)
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Holes In Your Coffin, Part Two:** _

_**All My Friends Are Heathens** _

Chapter 4 -

The next morning, after hours of arduous work with Bob and more magical ingredients than he had used in some time, Harry walked into Murphy’s precinct and, waving his consultant’s badge at the officer at the entrance, strode up to her desk in the bullpen.

“I got it,” he said. And he held up a glass bottle filled with a bright green, translucent liquid that threw off strange lights. The bottle was topped with a spray nozzle. Murphy decided that Harry looked far too proud of himself and arched an eyebrow at him.

“Got what, exactly?”

“The path to our killer-slash-drug-maker.”

“Ah.” She looked at the bottle dubiously. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Harry sighed. “Just trust me, Murph. Grab a warrant and your gun, and let’s go.”

“Dresden, they don’t just hand out warrants like hall passes, you know. I don’t have anything even remotely resembling evidence or just cause.”

“Well then…?”

Murphy groaned and scrubbed a hand over the top of her hair. “I’m… just gonna have to wing it, and hope I can come up with a justifiable excuse later on.”

“…are you sure…?”

“Ye-yeah… Yes.” She nodded sharply. She pulled her gun from her desk drawer and put it in her hip holster. She made sure her badge was clearly visible hanging from the chain on her neck. “I’m ready if you are.”

Harry nodded back at her, and they walked out of the building together. When they had walked out onto the sidewalk, he paused.

“What?” She asked.

“Just a sec. This part is going to be unpleasant.”

He took a deep breath to prepare himself, and then sprayed the bright green liquid directly into his eyes. Beside him, Murphy spluttered in shock, but he was too busy being in pain to reassure her. The bright green liquid, a potion that he and Bob had spent hours concocting and refining, hurt like a motherfucker. It felt like his retinas were burning, and his vision filled with sparkling kelly-green fairy lights for a few seconds. He squeezed his eyes shut as he feared up, then blinked rapidly until eventually his sight cleared.

A rush of air burst from his lungs as he said, “okay, let’s go.”

Ahead of him, he could now see a clear glowing green trail of glittering mist that twined down the street away from the police precinct and turned left at the first intersection. It had worked. The spell would lead him directly to the source of the magic he had found on Phil’s body. And directly into a murderous rogue wizard’s home territory, but he would worry about that when he got there. He’d packed a few other tricks with him as well, after all.

“What the hell?” Murphy whispered.

“What?”

“Your eyes.... their glowing green.”

“Hmm... that’s cool!” he said brightly, “let’s go.” And he followed the green path before him, stride long and quick. The much smaller, shorter Murphy scrambled to keep up with his pace, and he slowed up just a bit. For awhile they walked in silence, Harry concentrating on the glowing trail, and Murphy quiet and thinking by his side. They walked down various streets and through a handful of alleys for what seemed like ages, but which had been - after inspecting his watch - only been about thirty minutes.

Finally, Murphy caved in and asked: “should I ask how you’re doing this?”

Harry quirked a half-smile in her direction, without totally taking his eyes off the green path. “I’ve told you before, but you never seem to believe me.”

She sighed. “Magic...?”

“Right.”

“...right...”

And they kept walking.

After another ten minutes or so, Harry could feel the magic growing more intense ahead of him, and knew they were getting close.

“Almost there,” he said. Beside him, Murphy patted the gun at her hip. Harry was tempted to do the same, and pat the pistol tucked away in his leather jacket, or the drumstick blasting rod in the opposite pocket, but he resisted. Finally, the line of green fairy lights led him to a tall apartment complex, and straight through the front entrance. Nodding to himself, he walked in, brushing past the doorman without a word and leaving Murphy to flash her police badge as she trailed behind him. The green lights continued through the lobby and down a hallway to a wall filled with small mailboxes. And then the lights settled over a single mailbox and flared into the shape of fingerprints. Clear fingerprints as if they had been lifted by a forensics expert. Glowing magical fingerprints pressed right over the mailbox for apartment 421A.

“That’s it,” he breathed. He pointed to the apartment number. “That’s him.”

“You’re sure?” Murphy questioned. “Really sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Murphy peered at him for just a beat. Then she nodded. “Alright then.”

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was silent, as was the walk down the hallway to the door of apartment 421A.

Murphy moved to knock on the door when Harry stopped her, shaking his head. This one they could not do by her book. They had to do it by his. Retrieving a small perfectly round white quartz crystal from his jacket, he waved it in front of the door while muttering a spell under his breath. He ran the crystal from the top of the door to the bottom, and then from left to right, and then in a wide circle. There was a brief flash of red and then he felt, more than heard, a click in his head and knew that the wards on the door had dissipated.

“What did you just do?” Murphy whispered. Harry arched an eyebrow at her, and she sighed. “Right. Magic. Whatever.”

“Go ahead,” he whispered back. And without another word of encouragement, Murphy reared back and kicked the door open with a shout of “Police!” And then they were rushing in.

The apartment was shockingly normal. A small living room with a sofa and a couple chairs and a television, and around a corner a small galley kitchen. Curtains on the windows and even a potted plant on a windowsill. But they could hear a loud chanting coming from another room, and knew that it was about to be no-so-normal after all.

Both the wizard and the cop paused a moment, waiting for a reaction. But either their suspect had not heard the enormous noise of the door being kicked in and the shout of “Police!” or he simply didn’t care. With a shrug, Harry made to walk farther into the apartment toward the chanting, but Murphy shook her head and shouldered past him to take point, her gun in her hands held at the ready. With a sigh, he followed right behind her.

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected when he walked into the back room, which had surely been a bedroom in its former life, but whatever he had expected had not prepared him for what they found. The room was a cross between a meth lab, a wizard’s library, and an abattoir. It was a psychopath’s fever dream.

Plastic sheeting had been draped over walls and spread across carpeted floors like a scene from American Psycho. And quite a lot of that plastic sheeting was liberally splattered with various fluids that Harry suspected were a combination of blood, magical potions, and chemicals. Along one wall was a long table covered in beakers and vials and Bunsen burners, bottles topped with rubber tubing and propane tanks and large plastic containers with labels declaring their contents to be any number of dangerous chemicals. Along another wall was a floor to ceiling bookcase, covered in books - some of them relatively new and others made of crackling leather that spoke of great age. A small round table beside the bookcase was covered in books opened to various pages and covered in handwritten notes. Along the opposite wall stood four or five medium-sized dog kennels, and in each kennel was a small creature - Harry gulped back his horror at the sight of the creatures, each a small demon or fairy or other such supernatural being. Beside the cages was a large vat filled with a sickly yellow liquid, and in the liquid what looked distinctly like small mangled bits of little fairy and demon bodies.

Harry shuddered.

In the center of the room, standing in the middle of a magic circle drawn in red and black on the plastic-covered floor, stood a man with his eyes closed, chanting. The man was middle-aged - maybe fifty - with graying hair, wearing simple jeans and a black cable-knit sweater. Harry was a little disappointed by that; it would have been far more fitting had the man been draped in the customary melodramatic black hooded robes and heavy amulets so popular among wizard-kind. But it was a fleeting thought as Harry absorbed the fact that the man was holding a tiny, struggling fairy in the fist of one hand, and a slim gold dagger in the other hand.

For a brief instant, Harry felt something like numb shock and the odd, almost mundane thought: Murphy certainly won’t be able to pretend magic doesn’t exist after this, flashed through his brain. But then the fury shot through him, filling his veins with white-hot fire.

And like that, he was moving. “Fuego!” Flame, white as the fire in his veins, burst from his hand and struck the man square in the shoulder. The man dropped the fairy with a scream, falling to his side. Harry rushed forward, hoping to grab the dagger still in the man’s hand. Behind him, Murphy seemed frozen to the spot, shocked into paralysis.

Harry tackled the man, scrabbling for the dagger, but the man swiped his dagger hand in a wide arc and sliced across Harry’s chest. A long narrow cut opened across his shirt and just below his collarbone, oozing blood. With a cry, he stumbled backwards, pressing a hand to the wound. The rogue wizard hurried to his feet and swiped the air with his empty hand. A blast of icy wind slammed into Harry and shoved him backwards and off his feet until he hit the wall behind him.

“Murphy!” Harry yelled frantically.

That seemed to wake her from her daze. She shook her head to clear it and lifted her gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” she shouted.

But the rogue wizard didn’t look particularly concerned. He ran to the table covered in the devil’s chemistry set and grabbed at a couple ampules full of black light. Not liquid, light. Harry didn’t know precisely what it was, but he knew it couldn’t possibly be good.

He called out, “duck!” right in the instant the man threw one ampule at Murphy’s head. Murphy dropped to the ground and covered her head, just like the force trained in the event someone had grenades. Behind her, the ampule smashed against the door frame and the light exploded. For a moment, Harry could see nothing but black lights dancing in his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw that there was a large, perfectly round hole where the door frame and wall had been. It did not look so much as if the plaster and framing and wood had been blasted - there was no debris, no splinters, no dust. It looked more as if someone had taken a giant eraser to the scene, and simply removed a piece.

“Shit,” he said, almost blandly.

Murphy lifted her head and looked up. “What the hell was that?!”

“Murphy, move it!”

Harry and Murphy scrambled to their feet simultaneously, just as the rogue wizard prepared to lob his second ampule of deadly black light. At first the man couldn’t seem to decide who to throw it at. Harry made the decision for him, by screaming “fuego!” again and shooting an enormous blast of fire at his face. That got the man’s attention and he chucked the ampule at Harry.

He flung himself to the side, crashing against the side of the dog kennels, as the ampule sailed past his shoulder and blasted another hole in the wall beside him. The only good thing about it was that the explosion did not have nearly as large a blast radius as a grenade would have: judging from the holes in the wall, it was only about two feet in diameter. Still, a two-foot hole in his chest, or his head, would kill him just as dead.

Before the man had a chance to grab more ampules of black light, or something even worse, Harry threw his hands forward yelling “Forzare!” The force of the magic shoved the rogue wizard bodily against his work table, and smashing his head into a jumble of beakers and vials and glass jars with a resounding crash.

“Murphy, grab him!” Harry ordered. And without pausing, Murphy was tackling the man, twisting his arms behind his back and hauling him to his feet despite the fact that he was at least seven or eight inches taller than her petite frame.

The man struggled and kicked and screamed and Murphy nearly lost hold of him until Harry surged forward to help her. Between the two of them, they managed to get handcuffs on him, his hands locked at the small of his back. And Harry, for lack of a decent spell he could think of off the top of his head to silence the man, taped his mouth shut with a roll of duct tape he found in a drawer. At least this way the rogue wizard wouldn’t be able to shout a spell the way Harry had. Or annoy them further with his frantic screaming.

The man collapsed to his knees on the ground, and for a moment both Harry and Murphy stood over him, puffing for air and trying to slow their heart rates and the adrenaline pumping through their veins.

“Well,” Murphy said with a loud exhalation of breath, “I guess magic does exist...”

And Harry threw his head back and laughed because, really, what else could he do?

“Now she believes me,” he muttered, but it was good-natured and they were both smiling for half a second before they remembered the man at their feet. “Let’s find out who this asshole is, huh?”

Murphy nodded and began rifling through pockets in search of ID.

The rogue wizard’s name was Robert Blair, proclaimed his driver’s license, age fifty-three, an organ donor. Murphy would later see in his records that he was nominally a computer programmer who had been laid off from his company two years ago. Nothing in his file mentioned anything about working in black magic, or drug manufacturing, or being a lunatic. But then... the files rarely did.

“Murph, before we bring this guy in, I really need to ask him some questions. Some questions the police can’t really ask, or wouldn’t think to anyway...”

“About magic, I assume?”

“Yeah, and what exactly he’s doing to this drug.”

Murphy sighed and waved a hand. “Fine.”

Harry pulled his Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, because it was easier and safer to threaten someone with than his blasting rod, and held it casually as he ripped the duct tape off Robert Blair’s mouth.

“I’ll kill you all!” He shouted furiously.

Harry rolled his eyes and pulled back the hammer, while not quite pointing the barrel at Robert’s face. The man’s jaw snapped shut tight. Didn’t matter how powerful a wizard you were, unless you had very carefully and specifically prepared to deflect it, a bullet to the brain would definitely get the job done.

“You ready to calm down and answer some questions?”

Robert nodded once, sullenly.

“Good boy. Now, how did you make that drug, Glow?”

Robert scoffed. “I’m hardly going to tell you my method just so you can steal it from me and perfect it before I do!” 

“Perfect it? So it’s not working right yet?” Murphy butted in.

“Not.... exactly,” Robert muttered.

“How did you make it?” Harry demanded again, grinding his teeth.

At that Robert shrugged dismissively, as if it were no big deal. But after another breath or two he was answering. “It really wasn’t that complicated. I’m shocked no one else had tried it before. I used methylenedioxypyrovalerone as the base...”

“Methyl- what?” Murphy asked.

Harry glanced at her and said, “bath salts. I was researching that earlier.”

“Ah, that stuff is nasty. No wonder those addicts went nuts.”

Ok,” Harry said, looking back at Robert. “You started with bath salts, but you didn’t stop there. What else did you do? What’s the purpose of all these poor demons and fairies you’ve clearly been butchering?”

Harry noticed Murphy glancing at the wall of kennels filled with supernatural creatures with wide eyes, as if she had just noticed them, or at least had not allowed herself to absorb their presence until this moment. But he didn’t have time to deal with her shock right now.

“I’m trying to make the perfect drug, don’t you see?! The perfect power-enhancing drug. It will give wizards the most staggering power you could possibly imagine. The bath salts were a good place to start - up the adrenaline, the dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine! Up the energy and the rage and the violence and the strength. But it wasn’t enough to harness the special qualities of magic. Add some demon blood and marrow, sprinkle in some fairy, swirl it all together with some good old fashion alchemy, and voila! Magic enhancing drug the likes of which the world has not even dreamed of!”

Here Robert paused in his villain monologue and heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I just can’t get the balance quite right! It’s too weak, or it's too unstable and dissolved in sunlight, or it kills the user before they’ve even had a chance to do anything with it yet!”

“So you sell the failed batches to a drug dealer to give to regular ol’ drug addicts?!” Murphy shouted furiously.

Robert shrugged. “What else am I going to do with them? Besides, I needed the money to keep funding my research. Didn’t think the damn drug dealer would be such a liability.”

“You killed him, right? After he talked to me?”

Robert shrugged again. “Had to. No choice.”

“Yeah-huh,” Murphy said. “Are you done with this asshole yet?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Let’s get out of here. Can you haul him out while I release all these poor things.”

Murphy glanced at the demons and fairies again and gulped. “You’re going to release them? Aren’t they dangerous or something?”

“Not after all this, no.”

“Well then... they’re evidence, aren’t they?”

Harry gazed at her drily. “You gonna try to explain these guys to a court of law? Or let a forensics team come here and log them?”

Murphy blanched. “No... no, I mean...”

Harry shook his head. “We can’t let this get out. We’ll tell forensics and your superiors and any judge we face that there were animals - regular animals - in here, but they escaped during the struggle. And everyone will just assume this guy...” Harry kicked Robert in the thigh, “is a raving lunatic. Ok?”

“Yeah... yeah, ok.”

Harry nodded and turned to release the demons and fairies from their cages. Behind him he could hear Murphy hauling Robert back to his feet and making to drag him out the apartment. Then he heard a struggle and Murphy let out a wordless shout.

He whirled around to see Robert had released himself from the handcuffs somehow — somehow, Harry, really? He’s a goddamn wizard after all! — and had Murphy held tight against him with the gold dagger pressed into her neck. His eyes were wild and feverish, and he was already flexing his arm, beginning to press and drag the blade into her throat.

Without thought, without even blinking, Harry did the most expedient thing. He whipped up the revolver still in his hand and fired. The bullet pierced Robert’s forehead in a moment of almost perfect silence, but for the roaring pressure in Harry’s ears, and exited the back of the skull with a splatter of blood and brain and bone. Robert’s body crumpled to the floor as Murphy pulled herself free to keep from falling as well.

Huffing with the exertion, Murphy bent down to check Robert’s vitals and confirm that he was, in fact, dead. That done, she straightened and turned to look at Harry. “Thanks,” she breathed softly.

Harry nodded numbly, the revolver held loosely in his hand and a blank, stunned expression on his face. When Murphy stepped toward him, both hands held up in a calming, placating gesture, he knew that she was approaching him carefully, clearly afraid that he was about to freak out in some way. He knew it, but he could not quite make himself do anything about it. He just stood there as she reached him and took the revolver from his hands.

“I have to keep this, okay? Just for now,” she said softly, as if speaking to a spooked animal. “It’s evidence in a shooting. You’ll have to come into the precinct and we’ll have to file a report. But it was very clearly in defense of self and others. Obviously, I can be witness to that. It won’t be a problem, and you’ll have this back in a day or two. Okay?”

Harry nodded numbly again.

“Good. Okay. Let’s release these... uh... creatures, like you suggested. And then we’ll call in backup and forensics.”

For a third time, Harry nodded. He had killed before, of course. He had killed demons and vampires and a skin-walker, and all sorts of things. But this was only the second time in his life that he had killed another human being. It did not matter that killing Uncle Justin had been self-defense, or that killing this guy had been to save Murphy. It was still a dark blot on his record, and his soul. He shuddered. At least this time he had used a revolver rather than magic. The Council couldn’t attack him for this. Thank all the gods for that, at least.

After that, Murphy had Harry sit down in the strangely normal living room of the apartment while she called in to her precinct and requested forensics and a coroner and all the other usual suspects of a criminal investigation. They arrived quickly and both Harry and Murphy were carted off back to the office while the forensics team did their work. Back at the police station, Murphy and Harry both filled out statements, and were questioned by Murphy’s Captain. Just as Murphy had said, the Captain ruled the ordeal a justifiable homicide, and Harry was released within a few hours, provided he remained available for further questioning and statements.

It was, therefore, late into the afternoon by the time Harry returned home. Bob was waiting when he walked through the door, threw the wards back up around him, and sank onto his dilapidated old sofa.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Bob asked softly, his deep elegant voice tinged with concern.

Harry closed his eyes as Bob’s voice washed over him gently, and waved a dismissive, weary hand. “Oh great, Bob. How are you?”

“Did you ‘get your guy,’ as you PI types like to say?”

“Oh I got him, all right… Got him to death…”

Bob sucked in a breath, not quite a gasp but almost. “You mean you…?”

“Killed him? Yeah, yeah I killed him. Didn’t exactly have a choice. Justifiable homicide, the cops assure me. Nothing to worry about legally speaking.”

“What about…?”

“The White Council? Can’t touch me. Didn’t use magic. Bullet to the brain works just as well, don’t you think?” Harry asked bitterly.

At that Bob sighed. “Harry… open your eyes and tell me what happened.”

Harry did as he was told, and opened his eyes to find Bob hovering over him, inches away from his knees but not quite touching. So Harry explained what Robert Blair’s apartment had looked like, and what he had been doing, and how they had fought, and how he had gotten free just enough to try to slit Murphy’s throat, and how Harry had had no choice. But knowing he had not had a choice did not seem to banish the taste of bile from his mouth or the tightening in his stomach.

“You really are too soft-hearted for this line of work, Harry,” Bob sighed. “Legally, magically, and morally, you are in the clear. You did only what you must to protect another’s life. And I seriously doubt anyone is going to miss this Robert Blair except a few addicts who are too desperate to realize you’re doing them a favor by taking that Glow stuff off the streets. I don’t see why you should lose any sleep over it.”

Harry peered up at him. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said sharply. Then sucked his lips against his teeth in guilt. That had been a low blow.

Bob’s face went blank, something behind his pale eyes shuttered closed and he nodded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean it like…”

But Bob was already waving him off carelessly. “I know, I know. It’s quite all right. You are correct. I killed quite a number of people in my day. I do not suffer from quite the levels of soft-heartedness that you do.”

Harry surged to his feet, forcefully ignoring the delicious shiver that rather through him when his knees went through Bob’s incorporeal form. “Really, Bob. That was a cruel thing to say, I didn’t really mean…”

“It’s fine, Harry. Go take a shower and get some rest. You’ve had a rough day.” And then Bob dissolved into motes of gold light and flitted away. Heaving a sigh, Harry trudged up the stairs to do exactly that.

There was no reason Harry should realize that this seemingly minor case was about to ignite a fire he was not prepared to handle. Perhaps if he had remembered the words of Casey Burbank, warning him that everything around him would burn and die; perhaps then he would have had some clue. But the ravings of an addict overdosed on a magical drug didn’t seem particularly important. Nor did he have any reason to believe that the death of one minor rogue wizard would have lasting repercussions. As it was, by the time he realized what was happening, it would be too late.


End file.
